Black Gambit

by Clark, Eric

  The Colonel walked down the park’s main central lane and then took a seat on a bench. Fumbling in his pocket, he finally found what he sought — a bag of sweets. He sucked one, enjoying the activity around him.

  After five minutes he continued walking. A few yards away two children, aged about four and five, were playing. Their mother watched from a bench. The Colonel helped himself to another sweet and then, as if on impulse, he stopped by the children. He held out the bag. Both looked at the bag shyly and towards their mother for confirmation. She nodded. The children took sweets. ‘And one for your mother,’ said the Colonel. They looked as though they did not understand. He pointed. One, a girl, smiled. She took the extra sweet and ran to give it to her mother. The Colonel walked on feeling good.

  He took another sweet, double-checking that the right ones had been taken. They had. The one destined for the children’s mother contained a microdot message. Later in the day she would hand it to her husband, an attaché at the American Embassy. By the following morning it would be on its way to Washington.

  Among the many items the message contained was a warning that the KGB planned a mass roundup of opponents of the Soviet regime in anticipation of President Nixon’s impending June 27 visit.

  The roundup was scheduled for June 16.

  *

  Cory took possession of Parker’s new identity before the middle of May. In the motel room, he sat nodding as the contents of the briefcase were shown to him and handed over one by one.

  There was a passport, taken out four years before, showing a number of Western European stamps. The space for the photograph was left blank.

  There was a driver’s licence, a wallet with snapshots, a repair receipt ticket, and a clip of calling cards for Edward Partridge, automobile salesman. The address was in Toronto.

  ‘It’s an accommodation address,’ explained the man from Technical Services, ‘used by people selling cars and insurance and real estate, that kind of thing. The records will show Partridge has been on the books for two years.’ He produced a sheet of paper: ‘These are the places he worked before — they’re all genuine but they’ve either closed, burned down, or the ownership has changed.’

  Cory nodded. A similar list of home addresses was produced, and Cory transferred everything to his own case. ‘What about credit cards?’

  ‘That’s hard,’ said the man. ‘The companies don’t much like co-operating, and if we feed in an application, well, we turn loose an investigator.’ He gestured towards the documents lying in Cory’s open case. ‘Those aren’t bad considering the time. They’ll stand up — but not to too much probing.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Cory, ‘they won’t get probed too much. But I still need credit cards.’

  The man hesitated, ‘I’ll try,’ he said at last.

  Cory nodded. He would get them.

  The following morning he introduced Parker to his new identity, and another period of learning began. At the same time Parker had to spend two hours every day talking in Russian, perfecting his accent. At unspecified times, Cory himself would shift to Russian — and expect Parker to react immediately and respond in the same language.

  A week after this period of training began, Cory and Parker, travelling separately, flew into Toronto, where Parker learnt the layout of his new home town. He flew back to Washington alone. He walked out of National Airport, reluctant to take a cab immediately, eager to take advantage of his freedom for a little longer.

  He had walked only a few yards when he heard a shout.

  ‘Ed. Ed Partridge.’

  He turned immediately. His false identity had become fixed. Williams was smiling; Parker had passed the test.

  ‘Great to see you,’ said the detective. ‘Let me give you a lift. Car’s waiting.’

  *

  A précis of the intelligence message from what was only described as a prime Russian source did not reach Sunnenden until the late afternoon of Thursday, 23 May.

  He noted that the information had a high reliability rating and skimmed the information routinely until he reached one paragraph: the warning about a pending roundup of dissidents.

  His face whitened with excitement. He hurried for the door, putting on his jacket as he went.

  The time had come.

  Chapter Twelve

  FOUR O’CLOCK in the morning was the bad time and even after four months there was nothing he could do about it. That was the time when Zorin felt most lonely and isolated, most depressed, most desperate.

  As usual, on the morning of 25 May, he woke quickly, allowing himself no comforting half land between sleep and wakefulness. There was no light and he fumbled for the pack of cigarettes on the floor beside his bed. He could not find them — then he remembered: he had purposely thrown them out of reach the previous evening so that he would not fall asleep with a lighted cigarette.

  He fought a mental battle, the need for a cigarette versus reluctance to move. At last it was not wanting to smoke that made him get up, but the feeling of emptiness beside him in the bed. He tried to sleep in the middle, but he always woke on one side, the left, just as though Tanya was still there.

  He pulled on a worn white towelling robe before turning on the lamp on the dressing table. He found the cigarettes on the floor and lit one before venturing through into the living room to heat the water for his tea.

  There was a stale taste of vodka on his tongue. Drink comforted his nights until he fell asleep — but thankfully, he thought, did not tempt him in the early mornings after getting up, no matter how bad he felt.

  Perhaps, and this consoled him, it was another indication that deep down he was a survivor.

  He made the tea and sat in one of the easy chairs to plan his day. That, he had found, was essential. In it now lay his capacity to overcome.

  As soon as he awoke he became active, filling every moment until after dinner. Then at night he allowed himself to drink until he fell into sleep. It was, he thought, better and safer than pills. He might occasionally get a hangover, but never an overdose.

  Today, 25 May, was a Saturday, and that in itself provided a starting point for his planning. He had allocated each day a major undertaking. Saturday was the day to study art. He fetched a pad from his desk and carefully marked the hours from 7 a.m. until 8 p.m. In the space between 2 and 6 he wrote ART GALLERY in block capitals. The next step was to decide not only which gallery but which particular section. That would take care of four hours. Today the decision was easy. He wanted to return to the Tretyakov Gallery to study the icons which had become one of his recent interests.

  Gradually, chain-smoking and drinking tea, Zorin finished planning his day: an hour for chess, an hour for writing, the time for reading, the daily walk he would take, the shopping.

  It was 5.45 a.m. when he finished. He re-read his timetable, wondering if he should change anything. Trying to get a balance was one of the pleasures: if the big event was indoors, like today’s art gallery, then the walk, for example, should take him out among the greenery.

  Today’s walk was determined by another pre-fixed event, the bath.

  After Kukhlov’s initial approach in the bath house asking whether he was willing to leave Russia, there had been silence until the previous week. Then Kukhlov had hinted that something might happen soon. Today, if he read the signs right, he might be told more. Nevertheless, he tried not to let this dominate his thoughts — just in case he was wrong.

  At six o’clock he began preparing breakfast. Even that had its place in the ritual, the menu changing, though slightly, every day. Today it was cheese and cold meat and that made him feel it would be a good day. It was his favourite breakfast.

  *

  The flight for London was not due to leave until ten o’clock, but Parker was up early. He had not slept well and in the hotel coffee shop he ate quickly, conscious of edginess.

  The strangest feeling was that of being by himself: apart from the flight back from Toronto he had not been al
one for seven years. It was true that his freedom now was that of a dog on a very long leash.

  Williams had left him in no doubt that his daughter was hostage for his behaviour once he left Washington. The threat had not been unexpected — Parker had suspected all along that his rescuers must take some precautions to ensure he did not flee once he was away from their direct control.

  Even so, he had more freedom than he had had for years. He could set off for the airport when he liked, wander around London for a while, even act like any other tourist in Moscow the first few days of his visit.

  It was just this freedom that frightened him — jails always held men who committed crimes simply to get back inside. Parker hoped he was not showing signs of the same dependency.

  He signalled for more coffee and then drank it quickly when he realized there was a queue forming for stools.

  Back in his room, with cases already open on the bed, he spent a long time looking into the full-length mirror. The change had happened gradually, but he still had not adjusted to the person who looked back at him.

  The flesh-coloured skullcap that covered his thick dark hair made him look almost bald. The only hair was a fringe at the sides of his scalp. He stared closely but there was no sign of any join where the skullcap met his forehead.

  The moustache was real, as was the paunch that showed above his brown trousers. Equally real, he reflected ruefully as he lit another cigarette, was the cough he had developed. His eyes were light-blue, not quite the same as Zorin’s, but as near as contact lenses could make them.

  He began to pack. The few items he needed to complete his conversion into Zorin were few and innocuous. The nose pads were contained in a box of ear plugs.

  He packed slowly and carefully, double-checking each item even though Cory had vetted everything the previous day in Washington. The clothes were a mixture of worn and new ones. ‘Everyone,’ Cory had explained, ‘buys something new for a vacation like this.’

  Everything was either Canadian or widely available in Canada. The cases themselves, one large one and a shoulder bag that would fit under the airplane seat, were scuffed but not badly — the belongings of someone who’d had them some time but had not travelled too much or too widely. The passport conveyed the same impression.

  Parker checked the folder of documents before sliding them into the zip compartment on the side of the shoulder bag. There were return Air Canada tickets to Amsterdam via London, a voucher for round-trip air charter flights Amsterdam-Moscow, vouchers for hotel accommodation in London, Amsterdam and Moscow, vouchers for sightseeing tours in Moscow, and a booklet: ‘Your Vacation Questions Answered’. The last page of this was the important one: it contained Parker’s itinerary. Throughout the previous evening, his first alone, he kept returning to it, even though he knew it by heart.

  The Russian part of the package had been carefully chosen: Cory checked through every tour to Moscow before picking this particular one. It was listed in the brochures as lasting four days, but it offered an option, at extra cost, for tourists to stay two additional days. This would ensure Parker’s returning with a different group of tourists.

  At 8.30 Parker was ready to leave. He carried his own cases downstairs, double-checked the time of the airport limousine, and paid his overnight bill. He charged it to his American Express account, signing Edward H. Partridge. His hand was shaking when the cashier held it up to read the signature. Had it looked as though he was forging a name? The cashier smiled.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Partridge,’ he said. ‘Have a nice day.’

  *

  By 4 a.m. on Wednesday, 29 May, Zorin was at work at his desk, the constantly refilled glass of tea within easy reach, the large ashtray in continuous use. In front of him, resting on a plain white sheet of paper, was a piece of rice paper, about four by six inches.

  As soon as he was convinced he could remember everything he needed to, he would destroy the sheet. He closed his eyes and recited the lists in his head. He was certain now that he knew the details by heart, even if not what they meant. Obviously they were meeting places and times, but for whom? For him? For him and others? He had given up trying to understand.

  ‘You want to get out,’ Kukhlov had asked, and Zorin had nodded. ‘Then,’ Kukhlov said, ‘read, learn, and we will talk again.’

  The meeting was not until Friday, again at the bath house. Kukhlov had not wanted to change the pattern.

  Zorin pushed back his chair, stood and began walking the room. He felt caged. He would, he realized, have to be careful. Over the months, unintentionally, he had developed clear patterns of movement and behaviour obvious to anyone who watched him long enough. Kukhlov had warned him not to vary them.

  He lit another cigarette, without thinking. He found himself looking at the burning match in his right hand. He stared at the flame for a few moments and then, on impulse, picked up the rice paper and set light to it.

  *

  After three days of wandering around London, Parker was feeling more relaxed about the part he was playing. But at the same time he had grown more apprehensive about what faced him.

  Despite the threat to his daughter’s safety he had further debated trying to disappear. Could he make contact with his sister, get Susan moved — and then join her?

  It was, he had concluded, totally unrealistic. Firstly, his sister would refuse to co-operate; even if she did, where would he take Susan and what about money? Without Cory’s continued support, the papers he carried — his very identity — were useless.

  Furthermore, he had no doubt that he was being watched — and would be watched until he stepped aboard the flight to Moscow.

  On the night before he was due to leave for Russia, Parker stayed in his hotel room. He tried several times to write a letter to Susan, in case something happened, but at the same time not knowing whether he would ever want it delivered. He suspected that if he did not return he would prefer her to continue believing that he had just ‘gone away’.

  Nevertheless, the compulsion to write, to get down his feelings, to tell her what he felt for her, was overwhelming.

  When he had finished, the letter covered three pages even though he was not normally good at writing. He did not read it back.

  He hesitated for a long time and then wrote a short note to Cory asking for the letter to be delivered if anything happened to him. He enclosed them both in an envelope which he addressed to Cory at the house they had occupied in Washington. He would decide tomorrow whether he would post the envelope. If he did, he had no doubt Cory would deliver the letter. Despite Williams’s threat, Parker had grown to both like and trust Cory. He had even grown solicitous, concerned about Cory’s air of permanent weariness; the man was obviously draining himself of more energy than his body was able to replace.

  Parker switched on the television set, not knowing or caring what programme was showing, and then almost immediately called room service for sandwiches and beer.

  He was surprised at the speed of the service when there was a knock at the door less than ten minutes later.

  ‘Come in,’ he yelled. When nothing happened he rose wearily and opened the door.

  A hand held out an unwrapped bottle of Chivas Regal. ‘Just passing,’ said Cory.

  *

  They shared the sandwiches. Neither bothered to turn off the television set. The whisky lay unopened while Parker drank the beer. Cory wanted nothing. ‘You’ve come to tell me the truth,’ said Parker at last.

  Cory did not answer immediately. He reached inside his jacket pocket and handed over a paper. ‘As you asked,’ he said, ‘$100,000 made out to your daughter — hers if anything happens to you.’

  ‘And will it?’

  ‘We’d better have that drink,’ said Cory. But neither man moved.

  ‘Tell me,’ urged Parker.

  Slowly and carefully Cory unfolded the plot. Then he waited. He had left briefing Parker until the moment he was sure the other could not refuse to go ahead. But he was st
ill nervous.

  Parker walked across to the television set and clicked the off switch. ‘Fuck!’ he said. ‘I knew it had to be something like this.’

  ‘It’ll work,’ said Cory quietly, in two weeks it’ll all be over …’

  ‘Fuck!’ Parker hit the palm of his left hand with his right fist.

  Cory’s voice was harsher. ‘We’ve got a deal.’

  Parker reached for the Chivas Regal and began to uncork it. ‘Yes,’ he said wearily, ‘we’ve got a deal.’

  *

  Twenty minutes out of Moscow’s Sheremetyevo airport, the stewardess announced that the plane was beginning its final descent. Parker sat wedged against the window, his legs stiff from the lack of room, nursing a drink which he sipped with care because he knew the chances of getting another were small.

  It was only six hours since he had last seen Cory. He had stayed with Parker most of the night, trying to still his fears. Then, after a fitful sleep, the two men shared a taxi to the air terminal.

  Parker was still feeling shocked by Cory’s words. The assignment had seemed hazardous enough before. But to learn that his job was to impersonate a man and then stay behind in Russia after that man escaped …

  But Cory had been persuasive. There was no doubt that he had thought of everything. Parker gradually began to convince himself that, after all, even the new price was not as high as he had originally feared when he was approached in prison. Then he had suspected that whatever was involved would carry no chance of survival …

  Parker closed his eyes and pictured his last sight of Cory. He had been standing across the street from the bus terminal, waiting for Parker’s bus to pull out. Parker wondered why he had waited. To check whether Parker really was on board? Because he was reluctant to let go? For a moment, Parker had wanted to call out, to reassure him.

  Cory had been absolutely right on one thing. Letting Parker live his role as a tourist, relaxing into his part, before telling him the full truth about his assignment, had helped.